She rose, interrupting her 3am sleep, br To place a rough stone on the pavement br In the long queue of stones, marking her mother’s place br In the morning line for government bread br br She stands in pink at the school-bus stop br Faded satchel on her back, her eyes contained br By some slight terror of the daily world br Of the diesel clouds and traffic waves br br Tending the family stall, she chases the flies br From small triangles of garlic flowers br On the metal-lined shelves of the mercado br As soldiers and inspectors deal their gains br br On the evening southern Kalahari plain br Her brother said, “there are 17 white stones”. br He was jumping from one smooth top to another – br The stones that ford the stream at Kanye br br I met him playing on the day br When 42 young and grown children were slain br By a death lottery apartheid raid, an act br That histories would rapidly disdain. br br The soiled dictator rules out his contenders br On general terms of fear and pain.